


Central Processing Error

by trashydemon



Series: Speramus Meliora [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Computer Virus, Detective Connor, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-good ending, Sex Pollen, gross misuse of a manufacturing port, or whatever the robot equivalent is, port sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashydemon/pseuds/trashydemon
Summary: Connor is used to ignoring errors nowadays. Blatantly wrong information about computer viruses and whatever the robot equivalent of sex pollen is.





	1. Chapter 1

Connor is used to ignoring errors nowadays. 

He becomes accustomed to them, software adapting to his new ways of thinking, ignoring the times his programming screams at him to keep working, extract a confession, analyze more. He knows these errors aren’t an issue anymore: he can take breaks, often at the empty room Hank has so graciously offered him; he can make conscious decisions to start or stop an interrogation; he can give tasks to other detectives. Connor knows his errors and knows his limits. 

It’s because of this he ignores the first time a new CPU error pops up. 

He’s at his desk with Hank across skimming a new report when it occurs. The error doesn’t read anything but nonsense, and Connor doesn’t spend unnecessary time deciphering it; he and Hank had new cases every day, lots of work to do now that Androids have been integrated into everyday human life. He ignores it and opts instead to see if there is a link between an older androcide and one that came across his desk this morning. 

Another error pops up before he can do any analysis. Regulatory Temperature Failure. 

It’s nearly August, and maybe the exposure to the heat had damaged his cooling fans. Connor tries to continue before he feels nearly electrocuted. A throaty gasp escapes him despite his best efforts.

“You okay, Connor?” Hank asks, quizzical. His jacket had been discarded and his sleeves were rolled up; Connor can’t stop staring.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Something is wrong with my CPU.” Connor can feel himself overheating already. “This is a new error for me.” 

“Should I get you to a repair shop, or do you think you can finish the day?” Hank almost barks out a laugh, until he sees the bare hints of fear on Connor’s face. Though not particularly expressive, Hank could read Connor like a book sometimes. “Shit, you don’t look so good.”

“I don’t think,” Connor starts, before another wave of heat hits him and he nearly chokes before composing himself. It pools this time, below his gut, and Connor rolls his hips before he can stop it. He groans, hands clutching the armrests of his chair like a lifeline. “I don’t think I can finish the day.”

Hank is on his feet before Connor finishes his sentence. He puts one hand on his shoulder and Connor can feel the heat of it through his clothes. 

“Jesus, you’re burning up,” Hank starts, putting his hand to Connor’s forehead like one might a feverish child. At the touch, Connor once again feels electrified, sensors overloaded. 

CPU Error. Tactile Sense Error. Increasing Tactile Sense. Increasing Analysis Sensitivity. Increasing Basic Sensitivity. Regulatory Temperature Error. Decreasing Secondary Processors. 

Connor tries to ignore them all as he moans and tilts his head back. 

“What the fuck,” Hank starts. Connor looks up at him, circuits seemingly on fire, mouth agape. His eyes are wet with overstimulated tears and Connor uses the rest of his processing power to choke, “Home, Hank.”

“Shit, okay,” He says, lifting Connor’s arm over his shoulder to help him stand. “Never seen you look so weird.”

“I need to,” Connor says, doing his best to walk with the Lieutenant’s assistance. “I need…” What does he need? Whatever virus has gotten to him is dead set on having him incapacitated. He tries to think through the haze of heat/light/skin/Hank/heat/touch. “I need to take these clothes off.” 

“Wait till we get in the car at least.” 

heat/car/wait/heat/Hank/touch/skin

“Okay.” He says finally. Clothes off, heat reduced. One error taken care of, at least partly. 

Hank helps him into the passenger seat and watches as Connor frantically strips himself of his jacket. He’s out of his shirt and tie before Hank even has the key in the ignition. The bare planes of Connor’s torso revealed, Hank watches machine-deft hands move to divest himself of pants. 

“Connor! Connor, keep those on. You’re gonna have to walk into the house at some point.”

“Lieutenant,” Connor is surprised by the near mewl of his desperate voice. “Too hot.”

“You’re just overheating?” 

“No,” Connor says. “The error…” He takes stock of himself, circuits alight with oversensitivity, heat pooling in his gut, hips seeking friction. “It feels too good.” 

He allows himself a moan, as though a reward for acknowledging his symptoms. “I don’t have any sexual modifications, it doesn’t make sense… please,” Connor reaches one hand languidly onto Hank’s arm while his other hand skims down his chest. Everywhere he touches feels alight, nearly making him shake. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Hank seems transfixed to the scene next to him. He watches as Connor finds the port on his chest, arching into his own touch. He takes Connor’s hand in his own, fingers lacing together. The contact makes Connor moan again, louder, a sound that almost sounds like the Lieutenant’s name. “Just hold on, okay? We’re getting you home right now. Keep talking to me, okay, Connor?”

Connor groans. “Doesn’t make any sense… Never had a virus like this…” He continues to trace his free hand over the port on his chest. “Feels so good, Hank… Need, ah… I need more.” 

Hank curses himself for not getting an automated car but somehow gets them home without crashing. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a herculean effort on Hank’s part, to keep his eyes on the road when Connor is nearly writhing next to him. One hand grips the steering wheel like a vise while his other, held tightly in Connor’s grasp in an approximation of what another android might do to exchange information, rubs soothing circles into his heated skin. If he were another android he would know what to do, Hank thinks. If he were another android he would know what exactly was wrong and how to fix it. Every one of Connor’s breathless gasps next to him drives the point home. 

Hank is scared. 

The capacity to be scared, however, had long left Connor. Removing his top had cooled him enough that he was in no danger of a shutdown, and there seemed to be no other immediate hazards, so Connor lets himself luxuriate in feeling. 

He feels so much, all at once and overwhelmingly: the leather of Hank’s car seats, tacky with sweat; his own hand, fingers brushing feather-light over his chest and catching on the port situated there; Hank’s thumb brushing tantalizing over his hand. 

heat/touch/port/tongue/hand/skin/heat

Connor groans again. “My sensors are malfunctioning. Everything is too much.” And not enough, he thinks. What does he need? 

“It feels as though my extremities are more sensitive, and areas that are designed to be receptive in, ah,” Connor shivers as he rolls his hips experimentally. “Receptive in escort androids. Erogenous zones. But I don’t have their modifications! I don’t know why…”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank says. “You’re overheating, about to shut down because what, you need to get off? Does that even fuckin’ happen?”

“I don’t know!” Connor says, still skimming his hand lower, past his hip bones. It seems to get more intense the closer he gets to…

“I can’t find any release,” He says, “If I could reach an orgasm, maybe this would go away but I can’t, I don’t have the hardware, I don’t know, Hank,” Connor’s voice becomes more desperate, even to his own ears. 

“Calm down, we’re gonna figure this out,” Hank says, pulling up to the curb. “Let’s get you inside.” 

He nearly drags Connor along for all the good Connor’s legs do, and if he weren’t so worried he’d joke about Connor doing the same for him whenever he drank too much. After locking the door behind them, Hank helps him to the couch.

He puts one hand onto Connor’s lower back when Connor seizes like he’s been shocked. “Hank!”

He pulls his hand away when he notices where it was resting, the large manufacturing port half hidden by the back of Connor’s unbuttoned pants.

“Do that again,” Connor pulls Hank onto the couch next to him effortlessly, pushing him back against the armrest and climbing into his lap. “Please!”

“Woah, Connor, just hang on a second, oka--”

Connor kisses him before he can finish, lips sealing to his own. Connor feels the contact and it goes to his head, flowing from lips to mouth to tongue to brain. Kissing was good, he thinks, lips are sensitive. Tongue is sensitive. 

Connor opens his mouth in an approximation of a french kiss, bringing his tongue past Hank’s lips to taste him. 

The taste electrifies him and he moans. He tastes coffee, amino acids from breakfast, traces of ethyl alcohol from last night, toothpaste, mouthwash, saliva… so many different things to analyze. Behind each taste, Connor knows, is a choice Hank made. His friend. His partner. 

Connor grinds his hips into Hank’s crotch and is pleased with the answering groan into his mouth, before Hank pries him away. 

“Connor! Connor,” he says, looking into the android’s eyes. “I don’t want you doing something you’re gonna regret just because you’ve got some kind of...horny malware!”

Connor takes a moment to think, because Hank looks genuinely distressed under him. 

Conflicting Information. Arousal. Regret? Never. Indecision? Confidence? Morning after? Something to regret?

“Hank, please,” Connor says. “I trust you more than anyone else on the planet, human or android, I know what you’re thinking, ah,” he grinds down once more, feels Hank fully hard under him. “I won’t regret this, I trust you, please! Just, please…” 

“What do you want me to do?” Hank asks, barely a whisper, incredulous.

“Touch me,” Connor answers, and it’s the invitation Hank needs. His hands run up Connor’s sides, down to his hips and up again. Wherever Hank’s hands touch, Connor feels fire, he feels sensation, he feels good, good, too good.

He kisses Hank again and presses himself close, and Hank skims the port on his back again. 

Connor arches into the touch and moans out a loud “Ah!”

“There?” Hank asks, pressing his fingers around the port. It’s pliant, and he can fit two fingers into it before it narrows. Connor tries to answer, but all that comes out is another groan. His processors feel overloaded. His body feels stiff. He can only writhe, mouth open, while Hank pushes two fingers into the sensitive port. 

“Ah! Ah!” His body feels too hot. 

heat/skin/fingers/Hank/sweat/more/heat/more/more/more

Connor’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head as he gasps out, “M-more, please, H-Hank.”

Hank obeys, pressing his fingers deeper into the port. At the depth, Thirium coats his fingers and trickles down Connor’s back. 

Connor can feel it all, every circuit in his body, every molecule aching to get closer to Hank, to his body. 

Connor closes his eyes, kisses Hank, grinds down twice, and short circuits.

 

He registers Hank groaning into the kiss, he registers the feeling of heat, of electricity, of sensation being pulled out of his body. He registers Hank’s body shudder against his own. 

Connor falls sideways off the couch, drained of energy. “Connor!” Hank says, darting up. 

“I’m fine, Lieutenant.” Connor rasps from the floor. “It seems I haven’t regained motor function of my extremities.”

“Will you be okay? Did that… fix it?” Hank helps Connor sit up, leaned against the couch but sitting on the floor. Connor runs a system check and notices the large wet patch on the front of Hank’s pants. 

“I believe that we rectified the error. My diagnostic seems to be normal, and a search on the internet says weakened extremities are normal after experiencing orgasm.” 

“So you,” Hank makes a jerk-off gesture with his hands and sits next to Connor on the floor. 

“Yes, I think so. In the future it might be worth it for me to order sexual modifications to assist with the task should this error occur again.”

“You think this is something we’re gonna have to deal with again?” Hank asks. “Fuck, I need a drink.”

“Even if my system protects itself from this issue… It’s something I want to explore.” Connor says finally. “I enjoyed myself, Lieutenant. And I’d prefer to enjoy myself with you. I trust you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t have to pour your heart out to me, Connor.” Hank says, lacing his fingers with Connor’s.

“I want to thank you, Hank.” Connor says, leaning his head on Hank’s shoulder. “And to tell you that I am already anticipating the next time I’m able to reach orgasm with you.”

“Download some porn files before then, alright? Your dirty talk could use a lot of polishing.” 

Connor laughs, but begins browsing sexual components and software and closes his eyes. He feels Hank’s breathing relax. From another room he can hear Sumo snoring. He feels the heat of the room around him, not suffocating anymore. He feels the heat of Hank’s body next to him, warming his body down to his bones, and drifts off into the closest thing to sleep he’s ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some weird port sex! I tried not to take it too far but I'd be down to write some straight up roboguro in the future, depending on the response to this? Or something with the RK900. There's so much goddamn potential
> 
> I couldn't fit in in, but I imagine Kamski as this big perv who would absolutely make weird viruses like this for fun. I mean, he put the analysis tool in Connor's mouth. Just put it on his fingertips you horny bitch
> 
> as always please talk to me on twitter @probablyademon because as it is I'm screaming into the void about these characters

**Author's Note:**

> Actual porn in the next chapter, depending on if you want me to keep it vanilla or really ham it up with the freaky robot sex


End file.
